


Of All The Ways I Could

by Remedial



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Allusions to American Healthcare, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Identity Issues, Identity Porn, Loss of Powers, M/M, Marvel Rare Pair Bang 2019, Non-Chronological, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, POV Steve Rogers, POV Third Person, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slice of Life, Steve Rogers Feels, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remedial/pseuds/Remedial
Summary: In a mission gone wrong, a spell hits Steve which reverses the effects of the serum.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25
Collections: Marvel Rare Pair Bang 2019





	Of All The Ways I Could

_Hold on for a minute, 'cause I believe that we can fix this over time_

_That every imperfection is a lie_

_Or at least an interruption  
  
_

_Now hold on, let me finish_

_No, I'm not saying perfect exists in this life_

_But we'll only know for certain if we try  
  
_

_I wanna sing a song worth singing_

_I'll write an anthem worth repeating_

_I wanna feel the transformation_

_A melody of reformation_

* * *

It’s cold, crisp — just, perhaps, a little too much for the first week of September. Steve’s got at least four layers on, including a thermal and gloves and a hat, and the soft woolly scarf Natasha knitted for him (she’s been exploring other hobbies, too.) The whole shebang, really. 

He might not have walked, was offered a lift from Sam, Natasha, Rhodey multiple times. In the end, though, he decided he just needs a little space for himself. After all, he can always send off a quick text or even call one of them if he needs the encouragement. And anyway, if nothing else, the fresh air is good for him — and none of them could deny that. 

The walk is a good twenty-five minutes from the Tower, which is the perfect amount of time to get a decent walk in but hopefully not enough to get tangles in it that he wants to call off the whole thing, The perfect amount of time for Steve now, at least. 

At any rate, with how the last two months have gone, and — really — how the past few decades of his life have gone (read: his entire conscious life), he’ll take what moments to himself he can get. 

Hopefully, the feeling won’t wear off too fast.

* * *

“Okay, so, it’s not that I’m feeling restless or anything, but, remind me again when I’m free to go?”

Steve is pacing, which is a good thing too, cos there’s no other way he’s gonna get his daily, recommended exercise. It’s not just the fact that he’s been pacing between the wall on the left of his bed to the wall on the right (the longest dimension of the room) for what feels like at least three hours today, perhaps four in total, for the past five days, so excuse him if he’s going a bit insane. 

“Steve,” says Sam, who’s sitting at the foot of his bed and looks tired just from watching him. “Sit down. You’ll tire yourself out.”

Steve rolls his eyes and fights the urge to cross his arms and pout petulantly like a child, too. Which is, at least, one fight he has somewhat of a chance of winning, nowadays. “Well good, then. Why _shouldn’t_ I tire myself out?”

“Please, Steve.”

And there it is. Here’s why Sam is the one they sent, because he’s the one least likely to have his ear bitten off by Steve — or the one most capable at handling it. Even Natasha can’t make that claim. Not that he should have to, but there are a lot of things that _shouldn’t_ happen but do, anyway. 

Steve paces one more length, just for the heck of it, just on principle, before dropping into one of the chairs placed in the room. 

“Thank you,” Sam says, looking both unimpressed at him, but sympathetic. It’s the kind of look Steve reckons he’ll have to start getting used to — unimpressed sympathy — and not everyone gonna be as kind as Sam. At least Sam knows better than to add pity to it. Not that pity would be wholly unwarranted, at any rate. “Anyway,” he continues. “Bruce says we can have you outta here by Friday. Just one more vaccine before dinner later, and then tomorrow for recovery, just in case, and you’ll be golden.”

“Sure. Great.”

Sam makes it sound so easy. Sam, who has always been normal. Never too little, never too much. And Steve has always been either too little or too much. It’s strange and silly and wholly unproductive to go down this line of thought, and Steve knows he’s always wished for more and then less and, now, more again. It’s like Goldilocks and the Three _fricking_ Bears. Except he never gets the ‘just right’ option. 

At least when he’d been the scrappy punk, down the back alleys of Brooklyn, getting beaten up for being unable to keep his mouth shut, he’d never tasted anything more. Hadn’t known what it was like to walk down the street, confident about being the bigger guy, or unafraid of getting the breath knocked out of his lungs by an ill-timed breeze. Back when the heaviest weight had been his own, only. 

(When he had not tasted both sides of the coin and found them both to be lacking.)

(But anyway, he’s mixing his metaphors.)

At least when Steve had been too much, he’d been able to carry the weight of everything on his shoulders without breaking too much of a sweat.

Steve’s new suite consists of a large bedroom-sitting room (combined) and a large bathroom. All generously furnished with lovely, sterile, beige-coloured, plastic-y, fake leather features. Although, Steve doesn’t like to go to the bathroom because of the mirror, even when he grows tired of pacing the same lengths of the first room. His room also has a massive window, which is apparently a one-sided pane. It doesn;t make Steve feel even more isolated or anything. (No, really. It doesn;t. It probably wouldn’t make a single difference at all, and at least the changing weather, and the time of day, and the phases of the moon makes for a change in view. 

“Wanna watch a film before Bruce gets here?” he asks Sam, who is watching him closely.

Sam’s observations relax, just a little. “‘Course. What d’you wanna watch? Bruce said he’ll be here with everything at around four, anyway. We’ve got time.”

Right now, for however long Steve doesn’t know (but what if it’s forever?), Steve is small. Steve is weak. Steve could drink water a little too quickly and it might just kill him. 

It took a whole three days for him to get used to his lack of strength, to walk without stumbling on weak limbs. Not enough muscle to hold up hollow bones. 

He’d been big and strong for so long that the humble part of him had had to keep reminding him not to forget being the little guy. And it had taken effort then, because he wasn’t, really — he had been more.

Funny, how all that works.

* * *

Today is the first time Steve has been out of the Tower in two weeks. It’s...honestly, it’s a big thing. He’s also allowed Sam and Natasha to tag along with him, mostly because he doesn’t trust them not to shadow him as he goes. Even though he knows, knowing Nat, she’ll be shadowing him the next couple of weeks, no matter what, and Tony is probably following him with every satellite or security camera.

(Boundaries, though. Avengers don’t know them.)

They’re starting off small, just taking a turn or two about a nearby park. Sam has bought a hot flask of tea with them, Earl Grey with a dash of Manuka honey. Natasha’s bundled him in fleece and thermals — warm but breathable.

He’s be lying if he said a little space wouldn’t be nice. Just a little. Still, it’s good to have company. 

It’s not a terribly big park. Well, decently sized for the city. There’s a small kiddie playground, and a square stretch of grass with a walk path around it and a few benches dotted at the edges too. They’ve already walked around it twice.

“Wanna take a breather?” says Natasha, eyeing him up, probably because Sam’s too kind too. Steve tries not to wince. 

It’s not like he has much of a choice, though, right?

“C’mon,” nudges Sam, already sitting down on the bench, which would have been a snug fit for the three of them before, but is now perfectly roomy. Silver linings.

“I’ll be right back,” Natasha says quickly, jogging off before either he or sam can say a word. 

They sit.

It’s around eleven-ish, not too early ( _God forbid Steve catch a chill_ ), but still the morning. Sam and Wanda cooked everyone a hearty yet still somehow light breakfast for everyone this morning. Mostly for Steve’s benefit, obviously, though nobody said. Since it’s a weekday, the park isn’t busy. Only three parents taking their pre-schoolers to play on the swings, one dog walker who left as they were arriving, thankfully. At least Steve’s got his inhaler in his pocket. Sam and Nat both checked him twice. Each.

It’s not that it’s terrible being fussed over, not really. It’s only a little overbearing. Partially because it’s been a while, but even when it was all he’d known it was that then too — mostly, it’s just that he feels so helpless. Going for a walk accompanied, avoiding dogs, being checked for inhalers and layered with sweaters and being supervised by one companion as the other takes a breather. Makes him feel, again, like a child being minded.

Still, at least they care. Even if it’s not exactly Ma or Bucky, at least they care.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asks, already taking out the cups and his big flask of tea and carefully pouring two about halfway. He hands one to Steve and holds out his own for them to cheers, to which Steve obliges. 

“I’m fine, Sam,” and Steve can’t help but roll his eyes. _God_. “ We’ve only been out, what, half an hour?”

“Half an hour — that’s a work out, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, well, nobody asked you, jerk,” Steve snorts before punching Sam’s arm jokingly, suddenly aware of how he used to move around with such delicacy, almost like wearing gloves, or something, and now the opposite is true. 

“Wow, that’s real mature,” Sam replies, before throwing an arm around him, just casually. Instinctively, Steve leans in towards him, cupping his tea with both hands and slowly sipping. 

“It’s a nice day,” Steve says, oddly comfortably like this, though, him and Sam have always been comfortable. 

“Sure is. Feels good to be out, huh?”

“Finally,” Steve huffs, but he can’t keep from smiling. 

So far, the outing’s been a mixture of feelings. A little relief, anxiety, helplessness, comfort, a little bit of shock at how big the world seems again. Not that it ever seemed small. Right now...right now is just good. 

The wind is blowing softly, soundlessly, the air is the perfect amount of cool. There’s just the background noise of the city. That’s all. It’s, perhaps, just enough to think ‘ _hey, maybe this isn’t so bad.’_

“You boys look cosy,” Natasha greets them, a sly sort of look on her face. “Hope I’m not third-wheeling.” 

She’s holding a paper bag which smells sweet enough that Steve doesn’t need enhanced senses to know something good’s in it.

“Nat,” Sam replies, tone all insincere and full of laughter. “You can’t say you’re third-wheeling...Steve doesn’t know what it means.”

“I do so!”

“Sure, Steve. Sure. Anyway, Ms Romanoff. Care to tell us what is in that bag you are holding?”

“Well, Mr Wilson, Mr Rogers,” she replies demurely, taking a seat on the other side of Steve. Sam takes his arm back from where Steve’s been resting on it to pour her cup of tea. Steve tries not to mourn the warmth of it. “Thank you for asking. I have procured for us some muffins, on this fine morning.”

“May we purvey the selection, Ms Romanoff?” Steve responds in turn, sitting up. They’re all doing intentionally bad English accents. Wellm intention on Natasha’s part, anyway. And Steve can only speak for himself but he’s not the best at this kind of thing. It’s fun, in any case, and of course, very silly.

Nat gets first pick of the muffins since she bought them; so it’s a lemon and poppyseed muffin for Nat, an apple and cinnamon one for Sam, and the apple and rasberry for Steve. 

“Delightful weather this morn’, would not you say, Ms Romanoff?” Sam says, passing Natasha her tea. 

“Indeed, Mr Wilson. Verily so.”

* * *

It’s nights like this he’s grateful for. Where he feels a little less out of place. Tonight is team game night and they’re playing a big game of Monopoly. Not everyone’s here though. Thor’s up in Asgard a lot these days, and Sam’s on a mission with Clint (the amount of bird jokes made before they’d left had almost driven him up the wall.)

(Steve’s totally not jealous.)

Anyway, they’re playing Monopoly — Nat, Bruce, Tony, Rhodey, Wanda and Vision. Tony is currently winning, of course he is, though it is a little bittersweet because he suspects Natasha and Rhodey _could_ be winning if they didn’t enjoy tormenting him so much about it.

“You guys are just jealous I’m better than you,” pouts Tony, crossing his arms.

Rhodey snorts. “Sure, mate. I mean, you’d think that, wouldn’t you?”

“Typical one-percenter response,” Nat adds.

“Steve’s… Steve’s doing okay. He misses Sam, obviously — and Clint — and he’s a little anxious, even though it’s only a re-con mission for a potential HYDRA base on Long Island. At least they’re not keeping him outta the look like he thought he would at first. Still, it’s always been him having Sam’s back. 

It’s a nice evening, though. Steve can appreciate it. Especially since he suspects Vision mostly suggested it for his benefit with Sam being away and all. 

Wanda is about to roll the die for her turn when FRIDAY interrupts saying there’s an alert from Clint. A voice message.

_“This is HAWK coming in. We need back-up stat.. It’s Sa— It’s FALCON. He’s down. Hurry.”_

Just like that, the room upturns itself. Vision’s civilian clothes dissipate into his cape and offense-wear; Rhodey and Tony are calling forth their respective suits, and there’s the _shink_ of metal slotting into each other; Wanda is donning her usual red kevlar-leather jacket, ready for the fight as always; Bruce is carefully taking off his shirt along with his glasses, folding neatly but efficiently; Nat has slipped behind a screen to change into her tactical gear and a panel from the wall slides out to reveal various guns, knives and other weapons which she takes quick care in selecting. All this takes less than a minute, a kind of fervency which he’s never really noticed — not beyond himself, at least, slipping into his suit and sliding the shield onto his arm. It’s almost more of a rush witnessing it second hand. Where the adrenaline builds up from his toes to fill his chest and up to his throat…and Steve is just _sitting_ here.

The nearest window pane opens and a fast blast of frigid air bursts through and the Avengers filter out — Steve doesn’t register the sudden restricting sensation in his lungs — Wanda is lifted out by Vision, Tony takes Bruce, and Rhodey takes Natasha.

Before she sets off, Nat presses a soft, quick kiss to his cheek and tells him: “we’ll bring him home. Don’t worry.”

And then they’re off. FRIDAY shits the glass window pane quickly and it’s as though they were never even here at all. But the monopoly sits with the board half scattered and midgame, Wanda’s cup of herbal tea is still warm, as is Steve’s, and there’s a little condensation on Nat’s glass of lemonade.

And Steve is alone.

And there’s nothing he can do about it.

And everyone’s out there fighting and doing something about it, and Steve is stuck here and Sam is out there and hurt and god knows what else and maybe even — 

And Steve is stuck here.

Everyone else is fighting and Steve is stuck here, helpless, useless, worthless and Sam is hurt — _FALCON is down_ , Clint had said and that was three minutes ago and _down_ could be anything from hurt to worse — _oh god, what if he’s_ — 

And there’s nothing he can do about it and — and —

“Steve. Steve, breathe. Focus on my voice, breathe. In for one-two-three. Out, one-two-three. In, one-two-three. Out, one-two-three…”

He’s not sure how long he needs for FRIDAY to coax the breath back into him, but it’s probably longer than most, if that’s something which is applicable. By the time she stops, his heart feels a little stuttery, still. Though, only just more than it does usually, nowadays.

“Steve, your heart rate is still slightly elevated,” FRIDAY voices, almost in confirmation. “Does your chest feel tight, at all?”

“Only—” Steve starts, still swallowing some of the air. “Only a little.”

“I would recommend using your inhaler.”

Steve does, fumbling it out of his pocket before taking a few deep puffs.

“Thanks, FRIDAY. I think I’m good, for now,” he says, allowing himself to lie against the couch cushions. Tries to ignore the situation at hand, buzzing at the frays of his nerves. 

“The team will be fine, Steve,” FRIDAY says, a moment later. “This is not just a meaningless platitude programmed into me; previous data suggests a pattern of success for the Avengers. Sam Wilson will return alive, as will the others.”

Steve closes his eyes and tries not to think of anything else except that being the future. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

His heart is thrumming in his chest, and every so often he feels his breath hitch on nothing except what-ifs, and he’s hugging a throw pillow to his chest like his life depends on it, and all he can do, really, is wait.

“All right,” he says, and whispers to himself, _please._

* * *

“So, you’ve got a few options,” Tony greets loudly, entering with all the usual boisterousness.

“Tony,” Bruce says, slipping off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose lightly. “I’ve already discussed everything with him. You’re late.”

“Well hello to you too, I guess,” Tony mutters with a roll of his eyes. “And good morning _Spangles!”_

“Morning Tony,” Steve replies weakly, although this time he had s valid reason to find Tony’s demeanour a little tiring. 

“Morning, Sunshine! Anyway, he hasn’t heard it from _me_ yet, and the elevator pitch I thought up just now as I was getting the elevator.”

Bruce exchanges a long, unsubtle look with Steve which seems to speak for itself and which Tony utterly ignores in favour of continuing. He drags forwards a chair and settles himself down next to Bruce unprompted, both of them at the side of Steve’s bed.

“So,” he begins again, “You’ve got a few options.”

He taps a few buttons on his wristwatch — one of those futuristic-looking ones with a screen instead of an analogue face — and conjures (not really _conjures_ but close enough, to Steve’s mind) a small projection, like a mini version of what Steve usually sees from the holo-tables, the few times he’s been allowed in the labs. There’s a button on the side of the bed which Bruce presses to tilt Steve up into a sitting position so he’s not craning his neck. Even though, he can do at least that much himself. Tony’s projection is a detailed spider diagram which has a very fitting centre reading ‘Steve’s Options.’

“I’m speaking first,” Tony says adjusting his angle on the diagram and clearing his throat as though he’s playing at doctor and lecturer at the same time. “Questions after class.”

He goes through each, one by one, and even though Bruce has already discussed them with him, Steve listens because — well, it’s Tony — what other choice does he have? But also because Steve might not be a super soldier anymore (for now, at least?) but he’s not stupid, it’s all important and he may as well listen.

“Since this probably won’t last forever — I mean, I hope not. What’ll we do without you, Old Spangles? — anyway, since this probably won’t last forever, I’d say your best option is to stick with Brucie and me here, and the lovely Dr Helen Cho, once she finished up in Seoul. None of that normal, annoying stuff which comes with American healthcare. Arm you with all the usual vaccines, more inhalers, spacers, weakly check-ups, Epi-pens — do you need an Epi-pen? I’m just gonna assume yes. Anything bad happens, you come to us.”

“It’s clear they’ve thought this through plenty thoroughly; and Tony’s a rich, white, billionaire and all of them are Avengers (even though Steve hasn’t been doing much avenging these days) so it isn’t like there are many complications for them to jump through. Not like back before when Steve’s Ma had been working about three jobs, including the TB unit at the hospital; and then Bucky was slipping change from his job downtown into his pockets, and Steve was some measly little thing making comics for the papers.

And whatever Tony and the rest of them have to say about healthcare now, it can’t be worse than the old days where asthma cigarettes were all the rage. (“You’d be surprised,” Sam tells him later, and he’s right except he isn’t.)

“Thanks, guys,” he tells them once TOny is finished. “I think I’ll be okay.”

Tony lets out a snort before giving him a serious look. “Well, you better be.”

* * *

So, technically speaking, Steve’s not doing anything wrong. He’s his own damned person, after all, he can go where he pleases. He still feels a little guilt prickling up his spine. It’s the first time Steve has left the tower, alone, by himself, no accompaniment. And this is _not_ a bad thing. It’s just that he hasn’t told anyone where he’s going. 

Which, in itself is not anything wrong either.

Just that his team (friends, more like. Which is still great, but he hardly thinks he counts as part of the team, anymore) can be a bit too overprotective.

And a bit too intrusive. 

Maybe a little invasive, even. Perhaps.

And he never seems to be able to get _one_ minute to himself, save for when he’s in his new room. And it is so nice that they care, but, okay, okay — he just needs a bit of _space_ , all right? What’s wrong with that?

To be honest, it’s actually really lovely, just wandering around the streets like this, unrecognisable, just another face in the crowd. Not Captain America, anymore. Not even Steve Rogers, anymore, at least not the title it seems to have become — just simply a normal, plain, perhaps a little too pale, too skinny, looking fella. 

Don’t worry. It’s a plenty warmish afternoon, and Steve’s got more layers on than a freaking onion. And he’s got his phone, his inhaler, meds, and all that jazz. He’ll be fine.

He ends up walking all the way to Central Park, takes over an hour to get there but it’s enjoyable. This new, bright, technicolour New York could never get old; not for him. On the way there, he indulges himself with one of those fancy chocolatey, coffee things — the ones with whipped cream and dark fudge sauce (y’know the sort) and slurps it leisurely, ambling along.

His favourite spot in the park is an area with a small pond and a few benches. A few ducks here and there, paddling about. Steve’s got his sketchbook and some watercolour pencils with him, and the atmosphere of the sunny park is just right. He turns his phone to silent and sets down his drink and makes himself uncomfortable.

This is nice.

There’s pollen in the air — it’s Summer, and he can tell — but only enough that, at the moment, it is making his throat tickle. But it’s nothing he can’t deal with.

He starts with a few basic outlines, sketching lightly with soft, short strokes of yellow. There’s a jar of water and a few brushes in his sack for later, of course. The outline of the pond and a few of its reeds and the family of ducks are traced first, feather-light but still visible. And then some of the surrounding trees and hedges, everything tinged in a haze of soft, warm brightness. In the trees, chirping birds and the breeze lightly filter through, along with the bumble buzzing of bees, and the distant chattering of fellow persons, far off enough that Steve can think of this as a perfect silence. He colours the sky with the palest blue, suggestions of clouds here and there, and the glassy pond reflecting it all almost flawlessly, save for the ripples and happy interruptions of its inhabitants.

It’s perhaps the first time, he thinks, without anyone else prompting him to think it but himself, maybe this is all right after all.

Because it feels like it’s been less about not being the strongest (which is a fool’s mission, if you ask Steve), less about not being superhuman anymore, or even not being part of the team. It’s just this. Being reduced to this.

Not being able to fight when fighting is what he’s supposed to be good at. Avenging — the only thing which has felt worth doing these past few years. Or, at least, the only thing he thought _he_ was worth doing. After all, what else could he be for?

Right now he just feels normal. And that feels okay.

He’s adding a few speckles of green to the water when someone finds their seat on the bench over from his, merely a metre away. Perhaps one and a half.

“S’nice day, ain’t it?” says the man, lounging back. Which is strange because, last he checked, New Yorkers kept to themselves, save on New Year’s Day. He’s got a cup of coffee, or of something, in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

“Steve looks up from his page and takes a sip of his own drink, just to cool his throat, half-way finished already. He tries not to inhale too deeply.

“Got that right,” he replies amicably. “The perfect day.”

The guy snorts and lets out a puff of smoke into the air. Steve follows it as it spreads through the breeze, lazily, almost sluggishly, colouring the atmosphere a drifting veil of pale grey.

“Hey, um—” he begins, stuttering, trying to lean aways as subtly as he can — not that it’s doing much. “I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke here, Sir—”

The man cuts Steve off with a dismissive sort of wave, and another cloud of smoke releases from his lips. “S’not like there’s anyone here who’ll care, is there?” he says and takes another drag. “‘Sides, like I said, it’s a nice day, ain’t it? So why ruin it?”

Steve would reply that, actually, _he_ cares, and his lungs care, except — except, actually, he can’t breathe. 

He’s fumbling for his inhaler — it’s in _one_ of his pockets, but _which one_ — and feeling the tickle in his airway solidify into something tangible and nothing, in the way of his breath; he manages to gasp another breath which whistles through narrowly and it feels like someone’s tied a noose somewhere at the base of his throat — he staggers to stand because he needs to get away, anywhere else, anywhere else but here — and it’s tightening quicker and quicker; like there’s some sort of block in the way which keeps getting thicker and thicker and nothing can get out and it feels as though his head is about to crack open and his lungs are going to cave in— 

“Shit, man — I’ll stop...No need to react like that...S’not a big deal— ”

Steve can’t feel his hands or his feet or even his face. Everything’s just one blurred sensation. Just the every increasing, hard, tightness of his chest expanding into his throat, and the bronchioles in his lungs getting thicker and thicker, almost like they’re gonna crack him open for the gas to escape instead of letting it out the normal way, and it hurts, and it feels like he has to cough or vomit or scream or something except nothing’s coming out; it can’t _get out_ — 

* * *

Despite being 6.30 on a Friday, the restaurant is surprisingly unpacked. There are enough people that it isn’t like Sam and he are the only ones, but not enough for it to be more than a light ambience. There’s the smell of hearty, warm cooking and the murmur of voices, dim amber lighting — the place is beautiful. The perfect blend of fancy and homey.

It’s a french restaurant uptown, one of the fancy ones. Natasha was s’posed to come with them but she’d begged off it because she’s ill, apparently, even though she arranged it. Originally, they were gonna go to a Spanish restaurant, but they’ve found that since the — since Steve’s incident, Steve can’t handle the spice, anymore. (Nothing here is even that spice, insists _everyone_.) 

(Steve would take a plate of snails over a pinch of...of cinnamon, any day, thank you very much.)

The waiter leads them to a small table, nestled into the corner but out by the window. The seats have worn but comfortable quilted cushions, the slight width of the table means they have to sit in a little closer, so Steve’s conscious of how close his knees are to Sam’s. 

And it all just feels so simply, breathtakingly intimate. 

“Happy Birthday, Sam,” says Steve, raising his glass, the smile on his face feeling more real than it has in a long time. It’s only glasses of water they’ve got, but it doesn’t seem to matter — only that it’s them, and they’re here.

(Though, really, they could be anywhere.) 

“Thanks, Steve,” Sam replies, all warmth and mellow ease like he always seems to be — at least for Steve — and raises his glass to clink it with Steve’s.

The menu’s got a lot of variety, a dizzying number of things which Steve can’t even pretend to pronounce; Sam and he take turns laughing at each other until it feels like he’s about to fall off his seat and everyone’s staring. Except, this time it’s the type of staring he doesn’t mind. Not really. Because it’s not civilians pointing at Captain America with hushed whispers (and sometimes not so hushed); right now, it’s just Sam and him having too good of a time with each other, as though the little bubble they’re in is just a little too bright.

It makes Steve feel sort of silly and smug and giddy.

Now that Steve’s not blowing the bank with every meal, they only order three dishes to share, which makes the decision process infinitely longer, now that he has to be pickier. By the end of it, though, Steve is rewarded by the surprise that apparently fancy restaurant hand out baskets of bread for _free_ , nowadays. 

“So,” Sam begins, leaning back into his seat after they’ve ordered. “How’re you feeling?”

“How am _I_ feeling?” Steve repeats, raising a brow and resting his cheeks on his palm. “You’re the one whose birthday it is! How are _you_ feeling?”

“Man, I’m good. This is real nice, y’know?”

“Yeah, real classy,” Steve replies, too focused on the way the warm light of the overhead lamp bounces off Sam’s skin.

“And I guess the company’s not bad either.”

“Really?”

“No,” Sam jokes, “But seriously, man, this is really nice. Being out somewhere like this with you — it’s good.”

The food comes after a little while, everything’s presented so beautifully that Steve’s almost afraid to touch it, except it all smells so mouthwateringly good that he has too.

They don’t really talk about much, and they talk about everything at the same time. It’s the sort of cliched thing Steve never thought he would get, ever, and — despite everything genuinely magical which has happened to him recently — it really feels magical, as cheesy as it sounds.

To be here with Sam Wilson, one of the best friends he’s ever had, on his birthday...that Sam could have been anywhere else and chose to be here with Steve of all people. 

About halfway through the meal, Sam leaves for the restroom and Steve gets a pocket of space to think and — to just revel in the feeling and the glow about the place. He’s so...happy.

“How ‘ave you been enjoying your meal, Sir?” asks one of the staff, who’s just passing by their table, and who looks to be the owner, perhaps, because she’s dressed just a little more casually than the other wait staff, and looks to healthily be around sixty where the servers look to be in their twenties, more like.

“Good, thank you, ma’am. Everything is really delicious.”

“And your boyfriend, was ‘e finding it good too?” she continues, and Steve senses the blush creeping up to his ears almost immediately.

“We’re just friends!” he corrects quickly, feeling suddenly hot. “And, um— he’s enjoying it too, ma’am.”

The woman smiles generously, as though he doesn’t quite believe him and is going to have a chuckle with herself about it later in the kitchen. “All right, well, I ‘ope you and your _partner_ have a lovely rest of your meal.”

When Sam returns to the table, he gives Steve a sharp once over before asking if he’s “okay? You look a little flushed— d’you need anything—”

“I’m fine Sam,” Steve all but squeaks, and hopes his face is not as bright as it feels. “Just great!”

“If you say so.”

Once they’ve finished, Steve is about to suggest desert (he is very full, but he also just really doesn’t want the evening to end) but Sam says he’s got something else in mind, and it’s Sam’s birthday so who’s he to argue?

It’s a warm enough night outside, it being Summer and all (Sam and Natasha have wrapped Steve in a scarf anyway, the worriers), so they walk back to the tower together. 

There’s a clear sky, the stars are out in full force, or at least as much as they can be, in the city. All the major ones, the brightest ones, are visible.

Steve isn’t wearing gloves now (Sam and Natasha didn’t go that far — though, it was a near thing and Bruce had to step in) so his hands are...are a little chilly (he may have some circulation problems). He stuffs his hands deep into his jacket pockets and inches a little closer to Sam in his paces, his steps a little wider, even though he can tell Sam’s are just a little shorter. Sam is freely swinging his own hands, all the while.

 _They look warm_ , he thinks.

It’s something he hasn’t thought about until now, and he doesn’t know where it came from, out of the blue; other than that Steve was running too hot up until now where he seems to run just a little too cold, and every other time they’ve left the tower recently, Steve has been bundled up well and truly, like a present.

 _Sam looks warm_ , he thinks.

They don’t talk much on the walk home, a comfortable, held sort of stillness, where it feels like their words are suspended in thick honey. Sam is half-humming a tune of a song which seems to be stuck in his head. Steve is staring at the way his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose catches the lights of the streets, flashing in their various colours. Every so often, Sam looks his way and their eyes catch and Sam gives Steve that smile where the corner of his eyes crinkle and his eyebrows raise as though they’ve just shared some sort of private joke, and Steve skips a few breaths.

Or maybe that’s just the artist in him

“What are you singing?” Steve asks, at one point.

And Sam shrugs, “I’ve forgotten,” he replies. “Something my momma used to sing when I was a kid.”

They go back to Sam’s suite when they get back to the Tower, before anything else. Sam makes a beeline for the kitchen and pulls out a food container from the fridge and grins back at him, expression light and happy and making Steve feel the same.

“My sister sent me apple pie. Dropped it off this morning.”

“It looks amazing, Sam,” Steve says, looking at it and feeling hungry again, just a little.

“Yeah, she’s been on a bit of a baking binge lately. Mostly experimenting with things, but her pies are to die for. Anyway, wanna share?”

“I’d be honoured, Sam,” he replies, sincerely.

They decide to make custard while the pie is reheating in the oven. Mostly, this consists of Steve boiling the milk (read: watching the milk boil), while Sam mixes the sugar, custard powder and the rest of the milk together, and then Sam making custard while Steve makes himself comfortable on the countertop. This is because they’ve established that Steve is hopeless at cooking, and Sam is deathly afraid of Steve (a) getting food poisoning, and (b) burning himself but trying to do something actually useful.

It’s sometime between the custard thickening, and the pie heating, and the sweet aroma of their dessert filling the air around them, and both of then enjoying how stupidly domestic all this is — Sam turns around and tells Steve to budge a little cos he’s blocking the drawer which has the whisk in it — sometime around then, where it feels like time has carved out a little space just for them to shelter in, Steve’s fingers find their way to Sam’s shirt, before tugging him close in, and Steve takes just one second to pause and take in Sam’s gaze, before their eyes fall shut and their lips meet.

(The pie almost burns. It’s a little too golden, but they’re okay with that.)

* * *

It’s been a little over two weeks since Bucky was found and agreed to stay at the tower, Things are...a little rocky, but they’re getting better (Steve thinks).

(It might be because Steve is no longer Captain America.)

(“You’re still Captain America,” Sam says.)

(Steve’s not so sure.)

He knocks on Bucky’s door. They’ve given him his own suite at the Tower, mostly because none of them think Bucky would exactly be the ideal housemate, which is fair. And Bucky usually just confines himself to there or at the gym or on lone walks around...well, they don’t actually know — which Stev totally doesn’t panic about every time. Because that would only be hypocritical.

Anyway, he checked with FRIDAY; Bucky is in.

Steve takes a breath, even though he knows from prior experience Bucky has probably already heard him coming, and knocks on the door. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, waiting and fiddling with the clasps of the plastic container he’s holding.

The door opens, Bucky squints for a moment before looking down as though only just remembering.

“Hey,” Steve begins quickly before he can lose his nerve. “What’s...what’s up? I brought cookies.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, his expression not betraying anything more than carefully mild bafflement, raising his brows. And then he looks down further at the container in Steve’s hands. “Cookies.”

“I made them,” Steve continues, fully prepared to just rattle on mindlessly. “I mean, not just me — Sam helped...Okay, Sam did most of it but at least that means they’re safe to eat?”

Part of him wants Bucky to just cut him off with a roll of his eyes, and call Steve a ‘punk,’ and swing an arm over his shoulders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there watching him blankly, letting Steve fill the air with his meaningless rambles.

“ —They’re chocolate chip. Anyway, are you going to invite me in?” he asks eventually. Because they’ve been standing at the door for at least five minutes, and there’s been a lot of insightful talk about letting Bucky make the little decisions and building up from there, but clearly, he was just not gonna do anything, and he could say no, and Steve...Steve just wants to be with Bucky for a little bit again, and he’s worried, and...well, yeah. He’s trying not to think over it too much, but he’s just really missed him.

Sure, Bucky is gonna be different now but...so is Steve. They’ve both changed, even if doesn’t show on Steve so much anymore. Bucky nods and steps back to open the door further and let Steve in.

“You can sit on the couch, Steve,” Bucky tells him, motioning with a jerk of his head towards it.

“Thanks, Buck’.”

Steve is trying to be subtle in taking in the room and its resident. So far, aside from the drawn blinds, the room seems vastly the same. Coldly detached. Bucky is much improved from when they first found him, though. Of course. Much cleaner, at least. He hasn’t had his hair cut yet, but it’s a little damp as though freshly washed, and his clothes fit him a little looser in the way they always seem to after showers, somehow. All light on light, muted colours, and soft jersey material. It’s a good look on him, if a little off for the (ex) Winter Soldier. Or, at the very least, surprising.

Because Steve isn’t quite sure what to do with himself, he opens the container without being prompted by his host, placing it on the table, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Even though it feels quite awkward with him sitting down and all.

“So,” he begins and swallows. “How’re...How’re you?”

Bucky comes to sit down on a different sofa, sliding one glass of water across the coffee table, sitting between them. “Fine,” he says. “You?” As though he’s not really understanding the words, just copying them from some overheard dialogue. Which is silly because of course, he understands. He was conditioned, not reduced to an infant, and even then he’s getting better. (Not that either situation is ideal.)

Still, Steve feels his heat sink a little.

“I’ve been doing okay,” he replies, taking a sip of his water and resisting the urge to hug his glass to his chest like a therapy bear or something. He lets out a quick laugh, and tries not to wince at how strained it sounds. “Y’know, I’ve been better, of course. But you gotta make the best of what you got, I suppose.”

Bucky nods like he understands, even though Steve doesn’t think he’s really been listening. Which is probably (read: definitely) an unfair assumption, because Bucky is probably listening to everything. 

“How’re you finding your rooms? I’m guessin’ it’s a bit new. It’s exactly the same as mine was when I first moved in until I’d littered the walls with sketches. Y’know how I am.”

Bucky nods, his expression not betraying a single thing. He can’t tell is he’s lying when he says, “Yeah, sure.”

“So how _are_ you finding your rooms?” he repeats.

And it’s not fair. He knows that — it’s not fair that Steve is annoyed, frustrated almost — maybe even a little angry. It’s not fair because it’s not like Bucky isn’t trying. If he wasn’t trying, he wouldn’t have opened the door, wouldn’t be saying anything. He wouldn’t even be here, in the Tower, at all.

But then, it’s not fair for either of them, is it?

With Steve — the one thing he’s in this godforsaken century for (though, he supposes all centuries are godforsaken in a way) is gone. Out of time, out of place, out of purpose. (Out of worth.)

(Or maybe this is how he was always meant to be.)

(More fool the one who thinks he can fool the nature of the universe.)

And Bucky, the only person left who can make Steve feel at least a little more relative to the rotation of the planet now, the tie of the thread which loops the two ends…

Well, Steve isn’t even sure if ‘Bucky’ is the correct thing to be calling him now.

“They’re nice. I like them. Tell Stark thanks,” says Bucky.

“I will!” Steve says, a little too quickly because the long pause comes sooner, and holds for longer this time.

Bucky’s lounge area has the same floor to ceiling windows as every other suite in the tower. Quite frankly, Steve is surprised Bucky is comfortable with the possible exposure of it, even if they are tinted. But, he supposes, Bucky probably isn’t comfortable. But he’s exposed being in the Tower a certain amount anyway. And, Bucky’s not exactly defenceless either.

“Do you—” Steve coughs, wringing his hands, giving up on all pretence of not being nervous, not when Bucky can probably hear his heart rate, anyway. “Would you like to try one of the cookies? It’s been a minute, but, should still be warm. Sam says they’re best eaten warm, so…”

Bucky takes one cookie. They aren’t big, more a happy medium, soft inside with just a little bit of bite to them. Very well made, if Steve does say so himself. His expression hardly changes as he takes a bite out of it, and Steve fully gives in to the urge to fidget while watching him. It looks as though he may as well be eating paper.

But then, when Bucky finishes, he takes another. And another. And another. 

The last one, he splits with Steve.

And even though Bucky doesn’t smile, he doesn’t have to; and Steve feels like laughing.

* * *

Steve’s not sure why Clint is here — they aren’t even talking.

Steve is laying on his stomach watching Youtube videos mindlessly (because his back and eyesight be damned), and Clint is sharpening his arrows, humming idly to himself, or maybe to Steve — it’s hard to be sure.

“Don’t you have anywhere better to be?” he asks, after around six more videos. He’s not really annoyed, per se, but it just feels like he should be.

“Nope,” Clint replies, not even looking up. “I’m happy here.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Steve shrugs and makes sure to sigh just a little too obviously, rolls over onto his back with the phone and props his head upon the armrest. Even though technically speaking, this is even worse for his back. He’s lucky it’s Clint here, and not any of the others. 

“You should get a hobby,” Clint says suddenly, after another few moments. “I mean, no offence and all.”

“A hobby,” Steve repeats incredulously. “You think I should get a hobby?”

“Well,” and Clint shrugs uncomfortably. ( _Good,_ Steve thinks ungenerously, _be uncomfortable.)_ “Yeah.”

“I’ve been off duty for what? Like two weeks, Clint, that’s not enough time to accuse me of being idle.”

It’s weird how defensive he feels about this, cos it’s not like Steve doesn’t _feel_ idle. He feels plenty idle, thank you very much, but it doesn’t mean Clint should say it. Clint, who is allowed to be both ordinary and incredible at the same time.

“I’m not accusing you of being idle, O’ tactical genius. I’m just saying you should do something which makes you feel something other than, I dunno, boredom? No offence to Tony and all those movie recommendations.”

“Like what?”

Clint bites his lip, tapping his fingernail on the tip of his current arrow for a second, as though thinking about it. But, he clearly came here with an agenda. He takes a breath before taking what seems a paper plane out of his pocket and aiming it at Steve’s chest. It bounces off lightly because, of course, the Hawkeye never misses.

“What’s this?” Steve raises his brow before throwing a sceptic look towards Clint. “You want me to try...origami?”

“Open it. Just found it on the street somewhere and, I dunno,” Clint shrugs. “Thought of you?”

Steve glances back at the paper and unfolds it, curiously because the way Clint says all this is so deliberately lacklustre that he must have tried, so Steve has to like it.

It’s a very professional looking flier, simply designed on glossy paper, but the kind which feels smooth against your fingers. Its main feature is a photograph of a painting palette, covered in smudges of pastel-coloured paint, artfully messy against the white of the palette, as though an artwork in itself. 

The text at the top, just Sans Serif font in white with a light shadow behind it, says, simply: ‘ _New York Community Art College: September Applications.’_

He turns it over. There’s a table with various different courses, prices, scholarships, application dates, requirements, qualifications. A short paragraph — only two or three sentences — on why the college is so great. A final line for opening days and their website.

Steve looks up. Clint has gone back to sharpening his arrows again, bouncing his knee in that nervous way of his.

“Clint,” he says and catches his gaze. “I don’t —”

“It’s nothing, bud,” he interrupts, waving him off, shifting his gaze away again. “Just something small—”

“I don’t know,” Steve finishes loudly, pausing for breath. “I—I’ll think about it…I just don’t know.”

“Oh,” says Clint, cut short, almost frowning. “Nah, cool. Cool, cool. Like I said, man, it’s really just nothing.”

“Thanks, though,” Steve says, feeling a little heartless, now. He’s not trying to be. “I appreciate it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Clint’s eyes flick over the room again, briefly, as though assessing Steve’s new accommodation, before landing back to Steve. And Steve doesn’t miss the way he seems to have to take all of Steve in again; everything he is now — and everything he isn’t anymore. “Look, just do me a favour, yeah? Hang onto it?”

Steve smiles, but his cheeks feel stiff, and his stomach is squirming with something he can’t tell is anxiety or relief, or just the consequences of a temporarily weakened immune system. “Okay. I will.”

* * *

“Ice-cream — they have _so_ many flavours now, almost too many.”

“Which one do you usually get?”

“Vanilla and pecan pie — it used to be...y’know, when i was bigger. Now the cold makes my teeth hurt.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose, expression openly judgemental enough to not be taken seriously.

“What?” Steve says, crossing his arms. There’s a weirdly elated feeling in his chest.

“All these new flavours and you go for vanilla? And what the hell kinda flavour is pecan pie flavoured ice cream?”

Steve huffs and jabs his elbow sharply into Bucky’s side, unguarded. That’s one thing about being bonier now and less muscley — pointier elbows. 

It's just the two of them — really, just the two of them. Because apparently everyone trusts Steve's survival in the hands of Bucky now, and Sam is on a mission again and Steve is trying not to get too antsy about it. Bucky's helping. Anyway, it's just the two of them, and they've taken a trip to Coney Island for the day. It's only two right now, so the sun is still high, and that, apparently, means ice cream. At least for Bucky. 

Steve...Steve can probably handle a milkshake.

"Fine — what are you gonna get?"

Bucky shrugs, looking back towards the entrance of the ice-cream parlour, now approaching. "I guess we'll see."

Seeing, in this case, means the flavours Bucky chooses (he chooses five, steve chooses a simple strawberry milkshake) are _much_ worse than anything Steve has suggested thus far. He starts off normally enough — lavender honey, banana (though Steve finds this flavour the most bizarre for some reason), rose tea — and then he goes for vanilla except its black because it's got...charcoal in it(???), but apparently his favourite out of all of this is frickin maple and _bacon_.

Bacon.

Steve tries a small bite out of sheer curiosity and dislikes it on pure principle, handing back Bucky's spoon with over-exaggerated disgust. 

"It would be easier to just order breakfast, Buck."

"No it wouldn't," Bucky grins, looking at his next bite as though it's something akin to manna. "'Sides, this is the stuff dreams are made of."

" I worry about you sometimes."

"Hey, worry about yourself."

"I'll do that too."

The ice cream parlour is pretty nice, cute, even. All pale pastel colours on crisp white, big glass windows and gold trimmings. The radio playing softly, mostly just background noise. There are booths with plush cushioned benches. A little stand in the corner with a water dispenser and glasses and dainty cut slices of lemon. 

They find a table near the door, Bucky insists it because apparently Steve will be unable to last even ten minutes in anything other than moderate temperatures, and this way it's neither too hot nor too warm. Although this time it's the inside which is cool, and the outside which is slightly too warm. 

Steve tries a bite or two of all Bucky's flavours, even though he's been told not to mix foods too much. They're not all bad, some of them are just interesting. His favourite is the rose tea.

"Don't eat too much now," warns Bucky, a teasing smile playing on his face. "It'll be on me if Sam gets back and you're sick cos you ate too much junk."

The only response Steve gives is to stick his tongue out.

The atmosphere between the two of them is so light, so similar to old times (especially with him being as he is now), so elating that it's almost too much, and yet Steve can't get enough of it. Times like these; the ones he knows not to take for granted anymore.

* * *

It's difficult to tell how long Steve's been waiting up here, useless, helpless, before he's been shaken awake. He's still on the couch in the communal area, unfinished Monopoly game still spread out in front of him on the coffee table, blanket slowly falling off his shoulders.

"Steve, we're home." A hand touches his shoulder lightly to shake him awake; it's Natasha. "Steve."

 _We're home._ It's weird to be the one welcoming them back. But then, at least they are back. 

From the light coming in from the windows, of dim amber and blue, it isn't quite day yet, but it's getting there. 

"You're back," says Steve, the fog of sleep clearing away in his brain as it catches up to the present, and then, " _Sam—_ " 

"Sam's fine," Natasha says quickly, but she winces. "He's alive. He got a little roughed up, but he's gonna be fine."

He lets a breath escape, allows himself to roll his shoulders and neck from falling asleep on the couch; but Natasha is still holding her breath.

“What is it?” he asks, cautious. “Who’s— Is someone else hurt—”

“ — They’re fine. We’re fine. We’re all fine,” she interrupts firmly, but there’s still an undercurrent of something else there. 

But what else?

“Then…”

Natasha bites her lip, and her eyes flicker briefly in a sort of nervous manner before settling back to him, eyes locking on to his; and because its Natasha, who’s default is the expressionlessness she was taught, he knows it’s her way of preparing him for whatever new situation he’s woken up to. 

“We found Barnes,” she says simply, as though the words don’t mean exactly what she’s just announced. “Well, he found us, more like. He must have been watching. He helped us save Sam.”

“Did he— “ Steve swallows, and doesn’t think he can afford to hold his breath. Not with this. “Did he come back? Is he here?”

She shrugs, “Last I checked, anyway.”

With Bucky, with the Winter Soldier, with anyone in their profession, really, it’s not quite an affirmative, but it’s enough.

Steve gets up, finishes his cold mug of tea still on the coffee table much to Nat’s disapproval, leaves to get changed, brush his teeth and maybe shower in his quarters.

It feels almost unreasonable to be doing something as idle as just freshening up, when Natasha is still standing there in her tactical gear. Maybe he’s just nervous, wants to welcome Sam (and, perhaps, Bucky) home in something other than his ratty loungewear and greasy hair. Maybe he just feels a little gross, and hot water is good for his joints after a night on the couch. Mostly, though, he knows he’s just delaying the potential of seeing Bucky, or whatever is left of him, even though it’s what he’s been searching for for so long.

Steve showers. He changes into some of his good clothes; a white cotton button-down, a nice soft knit sweater, jeans. He brushes his teeth. During all of which, Natasha sends him a text:

**[Nat] — He’s in the medbay. Need me to hold your hand?**

The tone is light but, knowing Natasha, the meaning is sincere. For a couple of minutes, Steve seriously considers it. 

**[You] — It’s okay, but thanks!**

He drinks a glass of water, just for the sake of it, before taking the elevator up to the med-bay. 

Doors open — bright lighting and slightly too warm AC. His eyes focus on Sam’s form on the hospital bed, sitting up but with his eyes closed, first and foremost. Then, by his side, Bruce tending to him. And then he spots, standing in the corner, Bucky, or the Winter Soldier, or Barnes, or whoever he is now.

“Hey Steve,” greets Bruce.

“Hey,” he says. 

He forces himself to turn in the direction of the other man; the shadow in the corner meets his gaze for a few seconds, assessing, and Steve wants to hunch inwards and hide himself away. But Bucky gives him a slight, almost imperceptible nod before looking away again. Steve swallows.

“How’s Sam?”

* * *

It’s not the first time Steve’s woken up with a mask on his face, in hospital, with the jarring background noise of a heart monitor beeping in the background and it probably won’t be the last, even if he’s out of the line of fire, nowadays. 

Like most times (because really, no matter the kind of situation, this seems to be the routine) he wakes up, it’s much too bright. He takes longer to adjust to the light than he used to, but he’s not as assaulted by the aggressive sterile chlorine scent which he’s come to associate with hospital rooms. A strange little give and take. And, like most times, Sam’s sitting by his side, swiping casually through his phone. 

“Sam,” Steve tries, his speaking ability mildly impaired by the mask on his face. 

Sam looks up, the relief on his face the same as all the other times he’s woken up. “Steve, you’re okay,” is all he says.

No admonishes, no ‘don’t do that again’, or even a ‘you scared me’, even though Steve can read the look on his face well enough to know the latter is true.

“’m sorry, Sam,” he says, because he is. The one time he goes out by himself and _this_ happens. God, he’s helpless.

But Sam shakes his head. “What for? Some asshole smoking in the park even though there are signs everywhere?”

A sigh escapes him. His throat hurts. He shakes his head. “Shouldn’t’ve left by myself. Or without tellin’ anyone.”

For a moment, Sam doesn’t say anything, and he can’t bear to look up at him, waiting for Sam to say something further about this not being his fault even though it clearly is. 

The mattress is too soft; the sheets are a little scratchy, unusual for the ones at the Tower, but maybe his skin is just getting more sensitive. 

“You’re an adult, Steve,” says Sam, finally. “You’re allowed to go wherever you like, whenever you like. And while it would be appreciated, you letting us know when you’re heading out, it’s not necessary just because you’re a little less durable than you were a month ago.” Sam pauses just long enough that Steve looks up to meet his eye. “I’m sorry. I think we all went a bit crazy, trying to keep tabs on you all the time, especially Nat and me.”

“Just a little.”

“More than that,” Sam replies. “And just because you’ve got a knack for finding trouble, doesn’t mean that it’s your fault.”

“Same old asshole New York, I guess.”

“Pretty much.”

* * *

It starts out normally enough. Steve is just with Bucky, down at the VA centre, waiting for Sam’s session to finish. They’re going out to dinner after — nowhere fancy, just one of the you-need-to-try-it places that everyone from this half of the century says they, well, need to try. A surprise, as always. And Bucky is with them now, which is a good time, if a little jarring to get used to for all of them. 

Anyway — it starts out normally, which is nice. A change. 

Bucky is playing some game on his phone, he is obsessed; Steve is doodling a few sketches of the other people in the waiting room. It’s about five minutes until the end of the session. 

“You’re pretty good,” comments a voice over his shoulder. Melanie, the counsellor taking the next session, settles into the seat beside him.

“Thanks,” he replies, rubbing his neck. “They’re nothing, really—”

“No, really, they’re damn good, Rogers,” and she raises her brows at him, almost challenging him to complete the sentence. “Accept it.”

Steve smiles. “Thank you, then.”

“You know,” Melanie continues, something like a plan colouring her voice. “If you’re struggling to find ways to pass the time, we could always do with some pretty posters to put up around town.” She shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”

“That’s a great idea,” Bucky, who has apparently decided now is a good time to look up from his phone, chimes in. “This place’ll be swarming with new vets and donations in no time. He’s up for the job — ain’t you, Steve?”

Steve blinks, struggling to come up with a response. “Me —I.” He takes a breath. “I mean I’d love to, but…"

“Amazing." She flashes him a smile. "Though, this'll probably have to be a volunteering job."

And, just like that, it’s… weird, having something to work on, other than finding something to work on, again. But it's a good weird. A sense of purpose, sort of, even if it's a little different from before. Just having a job to do, having a part to play. It's nice.

It's a series of events after that. Sam comes out of the session, they have dinner together and it's really, really good. Steve has never felt so _loved._ Steve works on some preliminary designs over the course of the week, gets some second opinions from the other Avengers, sends the designs to Sam to give to whoever's it is that wants them. It's kinda exciting to see his work tacked up around the city, in gas stations and shopping centres and lampposts and the like. And apparently, the important people back at VA are pretty excited to have art by Steve Rogers representing them, apparently poster campaigns don't usually gain as much traction. 

And it just feels pretty damned great to make a difference, even as he is now. Perhaps especially as he is now.

"Congrats," Sam says to him one day, a proud sort of look in his eyes. "You're now an influencer."

"Wasn't he always?" Bucky says, snickering to himself a little bit away.

They've got more people seeking help, more people volunteering, some big donors hoping to make a good impression with the Avengers, and some sort of hashtag thing which trends for a whole week. 

It's somewhere through all that, that Natasha approaches him, something clearly playing on her mind. 

"Found this buried under some old papers the other day,' she begins, holding something out to him. He takes it.

It's a folded piece of paper — the flier for the art classes.

Steve looks up at her, frowning. "Did Clint put you up to this?"

"Nope," she shakes her head. Spoke to me about it, seemed pretty damned concerned, but didn't put me up to anything. Besides, Rogers, do honestly think I'd meddle just because Clint told me to?."

"So you admit you're meddling," he jokes, but Natasha's haze still holds him firm. "Yeah okay, I know you better than that."

"I'd hope so."

Steve forces a slow sight and looks down at the glossy paper.

"You really think it's a good idea?"

She shrugs. "What's holding you back?"

"I dont know…" he struggles, looking from the paper to his hands, to the floor, unable to focus on one solid thing. And he hears Nat waiting for a proper answer. 'I guess… I guess I'm just scared that if I commit to this then I'm accepting my whole… situation."

"Is that so bad," she asks, touching his arm lightly. "Maybe you'll transform back into the super soldier Steve Rogers tomorrow, maybe next week, next month — who knows? But right now, you're not. We don't know when you will go back, but right now, what have you got to lose? You've got more time than before, maybe even more freedom, you could gain so much, Steve. And none of it means you'll never turn back."

Steve winces, because she's right and it's scary and they both know it.

"When did you become such a wise one?" he asks, returning her gaze with something unsure. 

She rolls her eyes. "I’ve always been the wise one out of you boys.”

* * *

It’s movie night in Steve’s suite. He’s shamelessly sandwiched between Sam and Bucky on the couch, watching some film called ‘ _Big Hero Six_ ’. They’re sharing a big blanket, and a bowl of popcorn between them, and Steve doesn’t think he’s ever been more content. 

About half way through, Sam pauses the film and excuses himself to the toilet, so naturally, Bucky and he busy themselves with throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths (and mostly getting popcorn in each other’s hair).

When Sam returns, he raises his eyebrows at them amusedly, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“Hope you guys didn’t get up to anything while I was gone,” he says, settling back into his seat.

“Nope, but Bucky’s just really bad at catching popcorn.”

“Yeah, more like Steve can’t aim anymore,” Bucky snorts.

Sam squints at them, taking in their popcorn infested appearances, scrutinising. “Wait, you guys really didn’t fool around while I was gone? Y’all didn’t — what is it, again — uh, _fondue_?””

Bucky coughs and at the same time Steve chokes and splutters out a — “No! No, Sam, of course not. We’ve never even…”

“Hold up, you mean to say you guys have never even kissed? Or anything?” 

“We’ve held hands,” Bucky says, only a little sulkily.

Sam waves him off. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, before turning to them seriously. “Right, we are fixing this right now.”

“Right now?” Steve repeats dumbly. 

“Yep, now kiss, make out, whatever you old people called it back in the day.”

Steve is about to make a complaint about that last comment, but Bucky’s already tilting his chin towards him and looking into his eyes so intensely like they weren’t having a goddamned _popcorn war_ of all things only a minute ago. 

“Okay,” Steve whispers, and Bucky presses his lips to his own, soft, careful, gentle, and Steve feels himself melt with it.

And, oh, it’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?

When they pull apart, Bucky looks up behind Steve at Sam, smirking. “Enjoying the view there, Sammy?”

* * *

Because Steve had his asthma attack in Central Park in front of a normal citizen, he’s in the community hospital like a normal person. Well, by every known standard, he supposes he _is_ a normal person now. Anyway, he’s to stay in observation for another few hours before he gets to be released. 

He’s in a room with four beds. One of which is empty. Two are filled by some elderly patients, quietly dozing. The last is occupied by a kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen, messing around on her phone, looking particularly irate. 

After a minute or so, a woman comes in and Steve instinctively goes to sit himself up straighter, even though she’s not heading towards him but the girl.

“Jamie,” the woman begins, biting her lip and sitting herself on the side of her bed. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Jamie mutters, putting down her phone. “I’m — I’m fine, mom. Did you speak to the doctor yet?”

She nods, hesitating, and even though Steve knows nothing about the situation, the pause makes his stomach drop and he looks away, hiding behind the screen of his own phone.

“Yes, he,” she breathes. “He says that… that he’s got treatment for you, and he’s sure it’ll work, but… honey, we don’t have the kind of money it needs, and I’ll work it off, you know I will, I love you, but, just— the next few months might be a struggle.”

“Look, it’s fine, mom,” Jamie sighs, looking back at her phone. “I don’t really need it, probably.”

Jamie’s mother runs her fingers through her hair, frowning. “Yes, you do, I just — well, maybe we can get the doctor to give you a lower dosage? That must be a thing, right? Anything’s better than nothing, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“You know what?” she says, standing up abruptly, a half-hearted smile drawn on her face. “I’ll go ask the doctor about it. I’ll ask Dr. McKinnon right now.”

“Yeah, alright mom.”

The door swings shut.

Steve blames it on the fact that Sam has just left to get a cup of coffee from the hospital cafe, and his general boredom, that he clears his throat and decides to address the kid. And, well, the kid looks upset — understandably — so he’s concerned.

“Hey,” he starts. “You okay, kid?”

Jamie looks up from her hands and gives him a strange look before replying. “No, obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Steve forces a laugh and raises his hands slightly in surrender. “That’s fair.”

“You okay, Mister…”

“Call me Steve.”

Jamie gives him another look before nodding slowly. “You okay, _Steve_?”

Steve shrugs. “I’ve been better. I’ll be getting outta here soon, though.”

“Lucky you,” the girl mutters. 

Steve waits a beat. “Was that your mother just then?”

The girl snorts. “What gave it away? When I called her mom?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “Just a hunch.”

Jamie raises her eyebrows, looking unimpressed in the distinct way that only teenagers seem to be able to. “So what are you here for, Steve?”

Steve shrugs, playing it off because it’s probably not as big of a deal to most people than it is to him, and he doesn’t wanna scare the kid. “Asthma attack. You?”

“I was under the impression that that’s not the sorta thing you ask people here,” she grins smugly. “Asthma attack, though. That sucks.”

“Yeah, it’s not good.”

She breathes a deep sigh and looks anxiously back to the door and back to her hands, a flash of frustration crossing her face.

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve asks, and he’s not the best at comfort, but he figures a stranger is better than no one.

“About what?” Jamie replies, scowling up at the ceiling instead of looking at him. 

“Whatever it is,” Steve shrugs. “Sometimes it’s nice to just talk it out with a stranger, y’know. No judgement, or at least no judgement that matters.”

Jamie releases another sigh, and for a moment Steve thinks she won’t say anything at all, but she does. “My mom’s right. I need those meds, but we don’t have insurance which covers this and we don’t have enough money to pay for them and keep up any of the house bills. I’ve got a job so I help out as much as I can, but I’ve got school too. And mom’s trying to save up so I can go to college after I graduate. And we’re struggling enough as it is, and now my meds are gonna make us bankrupt, or something, and we’ve got maybe five dollars on our _gofundme_ . And I just feel like such a _fucking burden_.”

Steve doesn’t quite know what to say. He knows it’s not an uncommon problem, he’s not that ignorant, but for a few moments he struggles to breathe under just how _unfair_ the world is. 

“You asked for it, stranger,” Jamie finishes, smiling grimly. “Sorry.”

* * *

Sam and Bucky have been spending more time together lately, and it's nice, even though Steve doesn't quite know what to make of it. It starts with Sam inviting Bucky for a morning run and Bucky, not being at all a morning person, suggests the evening instead.

"You okay with that, Stevie?" Bucky asks, nudging him gently.

"Course, why wouldn't I be?"

Steve isn't jealous at all. No, really.

It makes sense, of course, and Steve still tags along with them, walking around the park rather than running. At least the view is good.

On another occasion, Steve is coming back from visiting the library (he knows he doesn't _have_ to, but he enjoys being amongst the people) and he finds them laughing in the kitchen, flour everywhere.

"We're making pizza," grins Sam, chucking more flour at Bucky. "Wanna help?"

Sam is actually very good at cooking though, so Steve knows he's only messing around because Bucky enjoys the lighter atmosphere. 

"Nah, I'll just eat it," he replies, before putting his hands on his hips. "You are cleaning that up, though, right?"

"Yeah, Barnes. You're cleaning up right?" and Sam laughs because Bucky's hair is covered in flour.

"I hate you," says Bucky.

The pizzas turn out great, even though they have to order more pizza for Bucky. And everyone helps out with the cleaning. 

He thinks it's good, though, that they're becoming friends. The two people he loves most. Doesn't really think much of it beyond that.

Sam is on another mission one day, with Natasha, leaves early in the morning before either he or Bucky are awake. There's the usual stressors about HYDRA, aliens, all that jazz.

He spends the first few hours of the day drawing and watching Bucky pace around the room. At around one, Bucky goes into the kitchen, pulling out flour, eggs, milk, sugar, and a whole bunch of other ingredients.

"What are you doing?" he asks, looking up from his work. 

Bucky pauses, his brow creasing. "Sam told me I should stress bake. Help, if you want." 

It's less the stress baking and more the ' _Sam told me'_ which catches his attention. 

Steve doesn't contribute much. Mostly weighs ingredients for Bucky to deal with. Mostly observes how Bucky stresses. If nothing else, it helps keep his mind off his own stress. There are about five different types of electric mixers in the kitchen, supplied by Tony on Wanda's request, but Bucky is mixing everything by hand, with his flesh hand. 

They're going a little fancy with white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies, perhaps because fancy things tend to take longer and more steps, mostly because they're Sam's favourite. Which is silly, they both know Sam won’t be back for a few days yet, and he’s got Natasha watching his six — they’ve got each other — and by then the cookies will be stale. Still, Steve gets it. He doesn’t quite understand but he gets it. 

“Buck, you wanna talk?” he prompts, jumping up onto the counter, because Bucky is chopping the chocolate particularly aggressively. 

Bucky shrugs. “Depends why you’re asking, punk.”

“I mean...I think your chocolate chips speak for themselves.”

“And what do you think they’re saying?”

Steve chews his lip, ignoring the hypocrisy of his interrogating. “That you’re worried about Sam and Nat, because it’s just the two of them.”

“I would think that would be obvious,” Bucky grumbles, twirling the knife in his grip. “Look, Steve, I—”

And he pauses, stops cutting, and Steve sees him swallow. Because the three of them, Sam, Bucky, himself, they’re kind of a trio now. Now that Steve’s got his best guys, and they’ve established it well enough between Sam and him, and between Bucky and him, and Sam and Bucky are… well, they get along. So they’re a three now, not just two-twos, or two one-point-fives, and so they watch each other’s backs. 

“ — I dunno how to go about sayin’ this without making it weird, cos I know you and Sam have got your thing going, and you and I have got our thing too, I guess, but I just…” he trails off.

Steve follows him down the thought and utters an “ _oh_ .” And then throws his head back, laughing. “You like him,” he teases. “You _like-like_ him.”

And he almost laughs when Sam and Nat get back, because, _oh_ , Sam is so gone for Bucky too.

* * *

There’s only about an hour left until they arrive, and maybe it’s irrational that Steve is nervous, because he knows Mrs Wilson is lovely, but besides being Captain America, he can’t remember the last time there was something outstanding enough for him to be with her son. And this time, he’s got Bucky to stand beside, to compare to, and he can just _see_ her opening the door and not recognising him, and then the flash of pity when she takes him in. 

Bucky’s got a new podcast he’s listening to, connected to the car’s sound system, something about a strange fictional town. It’s a little creepy, mostly weird, but it’s oddly peaceful.

The car that they’re using has a big sunroof, and the setting sky — casted in pinks and oranges against pale blue — brushes over them in a sort of cloudy gold tone.

Sam’s driving, because he doesn’t trust either of them not to drive like a crazy person, and Steve’s on his other side, trying not to make his fretting nerves too obvious.

“... _Let’s go now to traffic...There is a car. It’s not in Night Vale, or even in the desert that cradles our little town. It’s out somewhere beyond that. There are many cars there, but I’m speaking only about one...”_

He’s unsure when he lets himself drift off, but one moment he’s watching the colouring sky, and the next he’s being gently shaken awake, and the view is fading into lilac.

“We’re here,” Sam smiles. “C’mon, my mom’s gonna be so excited to see us again.”

Steve rubs his face with both hands, stretches out and rolls his shoulders before taking Sam’s hand. 

His hand is a little smaller now, but they still fit nicely together.

“Guys, c’mon,” Bucky urges, already a few paces up ahead. “I wanna impress Sam’s mom.”

When Darlene Wilson opens the door, Steve doesn’t need super senses to know that she’s been cooking up a storm. 

“Sammy, you’re here!” she cries out excitedly, pulling him into a tight hug. “Well, it’s about time.”

“Hey mom,” Sam replies when they pull away. 

She cups his cheek briefly, assessing him, the relief evident on her face. He wonders if that’s what all parents are like when their children return home. “And who’ve you brought with you this time?” she says after a pause, ushering them in.

Taking his cue, Bucky steps forward, holding out his hand to shake. “Bucky Barnes, Ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

“Well, aren’t you a charmer?” she says, delighted, and bats away his hand, instead pulling him in for another hug. Darlene Wilson gives the best hugs, it’s where Sam gets it from, Steve should know.

And then it’s Steve’s turn, and Darlene says simply, “Steve!” and wraps her arms around him in a welcoming hold, and Steve releases a breath he doesn’t know he’s been holding. 

“Now,” she says, once they are all sufficiently greeted with motherly care. “I might need some help in the kitchen, if you boys don’t mind doing manual work. “

* * *

It's easy to lose track of time when Steve's buried in watercolours and pastels and sketchbook paper. It's already dark out, and the golden haze of the sun has been replaced with the changing blaze of New York nightlife. 

His finger's are smudged with streaks of greys and blues and orange, and sometimes it feels like his hands are the canvases themselves, and everything around him just seems like halftone shapes and white highlight lines. 

The door opens and Sam peaks in. “Hey, how’s the portfolio going?”

Steve shrugs, letting his eyes sweep over all the colour covering this side of the room. “Slow,” he laughs.

“You should take a break soon,” Sam says tentatively. “You’ve been at it for hours.”

“In a bit,” he replies.

Sam nods, pressing a light kiss to his temple. “Okay.”

The door closes softly and Steve goes back to his paints. 

His theme is change, which is cliche for sure, but he can do a lot with it, and… it fits. He supposes it fits with everyone, everything changes, everyone changes. And, the more he observes change, the more he realises the beauty of it, collective change, rippling against each other, like waves in the universe meeting before cancelling out into static.

There are befores, and there are afters, and the afters are befores too, always, and he thinks of his now, full of colour and soft splashes of shade, and then his future, a limitless line. Or, not limitless but unseeable, a line stretching into distance, unable to see the end. But you know there will be one.

Another knock on the door.

“Hey,” Bucky says, setting down a steaming mug of tea on the desk. “Still workin’ on it, huh?”

“Feels like i’ll never stop,” he chuckles in reply, eyes not leaving the paper. 

“Well, it’s getting late. Gotta stop soon.”

“Yeah, I know. Just… just until I finish this last one?”

“Just until this last one,” Bucky allows, sounding disbelieving. He gives Steve’s shoulder a quick squeeze before padding back to the rest of the world.

In here, here is the workshop, the world where Steve’s creations live, where his mind lets itself breathe. 

It’s rose tea they’ve given him, seeped exactly to the strength he prefers. And nobody would ever believe Steve Rogers has a favourite mug, and he would never admit it, but here’s the mug. 

He glances down at the canvas, squinting at it. He’s not finished yet, but he knows by this time Sam and Bucky will be getting ready for bed, and he probably really does need a break, even if to look at the work again with a fresh pair of eyes. 

Perhaps, he thinks, biting his lip, just five more minutes.

* * *

“You know,” Tony begins. It’s been three Wednesdays since all this happened to Steve (or unhappened?). He brings up a screenshot of a New York Times headline on the projector. “The public are beginning to catch on to a very missing Cap.”

The headline reads, simply: _What’s Happened to Captain America?_

Steve feels the urge to sink even lower back into his seat.

* * *

It’s weird. One moment he’s in his bedroom, just him, small, pale, weak, just-a-little-sickly Steve Rogers — and the next he’s flying through the air, shield in hand, plummeting towards his target and smashing their face in before he can even really see who it is. He’s big, and strong, and Captain America, a damned hero. 

And there’s a voice whispering in his ear, like a hiss, and he can’t quite make out the words even though it seems to be getting louder and louder. 

The sun is hot on his back, warming his blood, and the fight gets faster and faster, his punches get harder and harder, and every time he throws the shield there’s more and more blood, and it feels like he’s only getting stronger the longer the battle goes on.

But he sees himself, and he’s not the big, strong Captain America, the damned hero. He is that first, weak Steven G. Rogers, but this time he’s winning. It’s no back-alley fight and he’s winning, beating the enemy to bloody pulp. 

And Dr. Erskine’s voice is whispering in his ear _‘not a perfect soldier, but a good man,’_ and it feels less like a commendation and more like an accusation, and he can hear it almost perfectly ‘ _But more important, the man. The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse_.’

And Steve has beat up his enemy so badly that whatever chance he had of identifying them is now null, and for some reason he can’t seem to stop, his blows keep getting worse, his opponent isn’t even responding anymore.

Steve is halfway to plunging the shield through their neck when he wakes up.

The room is dark, still, and the clock beside his bed blinks _03:34_ in glowing red against the black.

* * *

Steve is confined to his bed, and it’s...it’s been a while. Not as long as you’d think, mind, but enough. Enough that he feels twitchy, yet too weak to twitch.

FRIDAY has got a projector set up running films, but there’s only so long one can watch a bunch of pictures moving before all the faces start to look the same. Christ, it’s only been two days. Steve’s only been prescribed ten minutes of walking.

The film pauses as a knock comes from the door, too rapid to be Sam, Natasha or Bruce, too slow and too heavy to be Tony or Clint.

“Come in,” he says, relieved at the break in monotony.

It’s Thor who walks in. That’s a surprise because Thor doesn’t knock much. God — it really must be dire then. 

Thor walks in almost on his tiptoes, skirting around Steve’s resting place before daring to approach, pulling a chair up to sit by him. 

“Steve,” he begins tentatively, tucking a few strands of long hair behind his ears almost delicately. A sort of nervous habit which seems out of character for the man, or at leat out of character to his usual presence. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Steve says automatically. Which isn’t true at all, of course, but then again the question was mostly null to begin with. “So, did he talk?”

Thor bites his lip and shakes his head. “I am sorry, Steve.” The sorcerer — we still do not know his name — said that he didn’t know. That he does not think the spell to be permanent but… you are the only case like yourself.”

It’s hard to tell what this kind of news means for Steve. Obviously a confirmation that his situation is only temporary would be a relief, but a confirmation of permanence or a confirmation of nothing… it’s hard to tell which is worse.

“Of course,” he says, looking away for just a second. “Of course. That makes sense.”

“But — in my experience, magicks of transformation are rarely permanent, especially when used to alter living beings. “Thor says and Steve wonders if the god notices the way he’s fidgeting with Steve’s bedcover. 

Steve offers him up a small smile, and it feels a little like the ones he used to give Bucky or his Ma, so long ago. “Then you’re probably right, Thor. Thank you.”

Thor smiles back, the kind of hopeful smile of someone used to winning and has never really known much difference. It’s unfair, but Steve doesn’t really think he has the luxury right now to be too generous. Still, he’s sure Thor is trying his best. 

“And I know you do not enjoy hearing of him, but Loki was an expert at magicks and he told me once that it takes a rather exceptional mage to hold transformations of living beings for longer than two months. Of course, Loki was an exceptional mage but—” Thor cuts himself off with a wince and then a pained smile. “Well, that is irrelevant. In any case, it shouldn’t be much more than that, especially considering the mage is Midgardian — erm, no offence meant, my friend.”

“None taken,” Steve replies, finding now that these little comments don’t really seem to sting when you’re not a super soldier anymore. “Thanks, Thor.”

“Of course, my friend. You’ll be — how is it the saying goes? — you’ll be right as rain before you know it.”

“I hope so,” Steve smiles.

* * *

So, this is possibly the worst time for the Tower to get attacked — which means, of course, it's the best time to attack the tower to their numerous enemies. It's lucky that none of the HYDRA goons seem to recognise him, they probably think he's just some _really_ unlucky food delivery guy, or something. 

Steve is currently still pressed into the far corner, hyperaware of the fact his shield is sitting, utterly useless, up in his room at the moment. He's watching Wanda and Clint fend off an endless supply of HYDRA soldiers who seem to have just been dropped out of the air, and he's about ten steps away from escaping to the elevator. It's not all fun and games either, apparently HYDRA has a few enhanced of their own: a telekinetic and some fire person, it seems. And the loud crashing he can hear above tells him this isn't the only floor that's been attacked.

He tries to breathe slowly, quietly, trying not to attract any unwanted attention as he inches his way towards the elevator doors. Even though it makes him feel like a damned coward.

Because he knows full well he's not gonna be any help fighting, he'll just get in the way, just another variable for his comrades to take care of, he still feels so damned useless. He supposes the least he could do is act as some sort of distraction, right? Buy Clint and Wanda a few seconds to turn the tide, if he just shouts something insulting to these damned Nazis and lets the chase after him.

He'd probably die for sure, but at least he'd be useful for something. 

There's only about three more steps, maybe four, when something flies through the broken window and lands at Steve's feet, and Steve isn't even thinking when he jumps to cover it, as though his stupid, frail body will do anything. 

It doesn't, of course, he only can only briefly register a pulse rippling through him before his body is flung back by some invisible force impacting with his body and throwing him out. It's weirdly slow motion, even though Steve is pretty sure he blacks out for a good few seconds, the way his body arcs through the air like a damned ragdoll, and then drops.

He is — or, rather, he _was,_ on Wanda's floor, the three of them were playing _Wii Sports_ golf, on the 63rd floor. 

_Well_ , a he thinks to himself, seeing the blue stretch above him and listening to the chaos of the busy streets below him, _I guess this is it._ And it's not an unfamiliar thought, he's thought it more times in his life than he can count, maybe more than any other thought, but he really doesn't see how he's gonna get our of it this time.

He thinks, perhaps, he should close his eyes. Maybe then he won't see the ground rushing up to meet him. He doesn't, though.

And, as morbid as it might seem, there's something oddly peaceful about being so certain of something. 

But then the two-tone, split view of the skyline lurches sideways, and his descent slows before he's suddenly rising.

Sam's arms grip him, vicelike, carrying him bridal style. His head is pressed up against Sam's chest, and he can hear the rapid beating of his heart alongside the steady beat of his wings pushing off the air.

"I've got you, Steve. I've got you," Sam is saying, though it sounds more like he's reassuring himself.

And Steve allows himself to close his eyes now, because he trusts Sam will get him to safety. 

Sam drops him off on the roof of a nearby skyscraper, and Steve's legs collapse under him as soon as they land.

"I'm fine," he says when Sam lowers him to the ground, and he means for his voice to come out firm, but instead it's shaky. 

"Fuck," Sam breathes, and he sounds terrified too. "Fuck, Steve. I was so scared," he says, and steps back into Steve space and pulls him close and tight as though he's afraid to let go. Buries his face into Steve's neck and kisses it before pressing a trail of kisses all over his face. He wipes Steve's cheek with a gentle thumb because Steve hasn't even realised he's been crying. 

"Sam," Steve says, reluctantly tugging himself gently out of Sam's arms. "Hey, I'm okay."

"You fucking better be," Sam replies. "Steve—" 

There's a loud boom and another floor of the tower goes up in smoke. 

"You need to go back," Steve tells him, even though it kills him to do it. "I'll be good here."

They've both been in this business long enough that Sam knows not to argue. That another minute of indecision can be the difference between someone living or dying. 

"Right," Sam says. "You better be here when I get back then, got it?"

"Got it."

Sam steps back, ready to take a running start off the roof, when Steve suddenly realises what he has to do.

"Sam, wait!" he shouts quickly. "The shield — it's under my bed."

Sam pauses, just for a moment, and then nods before taking off.

It should feel like a bigger deal than it does, but instead it mostly just feels like a weight has been lifted.

* * *

It's been said by several people that Steve lacks a certain sense of… self-preservation. It's definitely not that he doesn't care; it's just that, when you've spent all of your (conscious) life either unsure if you'll make it through winter or at war of some sort, you learn not to make caution your highest priority. Carpe-ing the diem, and all that.

Nor that this is at all the lesson life wants you to learn, but hey. Anyway, the point is, Steve’s bad at being careful, at least in regards to himself. 

They're in Bulvaria, fighting Doom and his Doombots (because of course they are), protecting citizens, trying (and failing) to cause minimal architectural damage. It’s all the same old. Same magicky-technology robots, lives on the line, a few scrapes that will heal tomorrow.

There's an echo of smoke and debris sifting through the air, and Steve breathes through it and lets his fingers release the Shield effortlessly on his next inhale. The disk ricochets off the sides of buildings and ugly iron automatons leaving pointed destruction in it's wake. It's a strange use for a shield, really.

Stranger still that he should hold it: Steve is not invincible by any means, but it's the idea behind what he is. The concept. The invincible soldier. 

Somewhere down below, Doom is calling out baseless taunts and all those usual proclamations of immortality, godly-hood, omnipotence. Well, not so baseless -- even if they've never been defeated by him before, he's always gotten away, and sometimes that feels like the same thing. 

He’s got help this time, too. Some sorcerer dressed in green — why are they all dressed in green, anyway? The guy doesn’t seem to be doing much, though, aside from looking menacing by producing glowy magic stuff in his hands, so for the most part, Steve doesn’t pay him much mind. 

(A mistake, Steve will later learn.)

It’s a pretty big fight, all hands on deck, but it seems to be going well enough. Well enough that Steve is pretty confident they’ll pull through. He’s smashing through Doombots with his shield left and right, almost unconsciously, paying attention only to who is an ally and who is a foe, leaving a trail of crackling, mechanical destruction behind him, and keeping an ear out for civilians.

Somewhere on his three o’clock, he hears a shrill scream and wastes no time in getting to them, cutting his way through the battle to the little side-alley where he heard it. The screaming has stopped now, and suddenly the alley seems this strange, untouched pocket of the city, hidden away from the fighting. There are a few large garbage bins and a few even smaller alleys branching off it, that’s all. 

“Hello?” he calls out, wary. The sound of his heartbeat and his boots on the cobbled ground are equally loud. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m here to protect you.”

There’s still no reply, and Steve feels his gut churn uncomfortably because, _what if he’s too late?_

But then he hears another pair of footsteps and the quiet sigh of someone else’s breath and— 

He’s turning around, lowering the shield, when everything goes dark.

And then… Well, it’s honestly been a while since Steve’s woken up in a med bay like this, actually. Although he...he feels fine. Not sore or anything like that, maybe a little achy, but generally fine. The only thing is that he might be breathing a bit heavier, which isn’t much, all in all. 

“Steve,” he hears Sam say, relief flooding his voice. “You’re awake.”

“Hey Sam,” he says, conjuring enough energy to at least crack a smile. “Did we win?”

“Yeah, of course. And we actually managed to get the guy this time.”

“Doom?”

“No,” Sam grimaces. “He got away. Ruler of a nation and all that. But, we got his assistant, or whatever — a magicky type guy — in holding cell one, in the basement.”

“That’s something.”

“Yeah…” Sam trails off and Steve turns his head to look at him properly. Sam is alright. He’s got a plaster on, just below his eye, but otherwise he seems fine. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Me? How am I feeling?” Steve echoes.

“Well, yeah. You’re the one in the hospital bed, right?” Sam retorts, offering up a small smirk. But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Steve squints at him for a moment.

“I’m feeling fine,” And he’s feeling quite ridiculous with the bed sheets tucked up to his chin, and quite out of the loop.

“Good! That’s… that’s good.”

The hospital room is a little chilly, and the sheets are thin and Steve feels himself shiver...which hasn’t happened in a while. At least, not as a physical reaction to the temperature (he’s shivered plenty at all the things he’s seen the past couple of years, he can admit that much.)

Sam is biting his lip, his eyes skittering between Steve’s face and the rest of the room, clearly nervous, hands fidgeting. 

“Sam,” he says, inhaling deeply, except something seems to catch and the back of his throat is beginning to tickle. He tries not to cough. “What aren’t you telling me? Whatever — ” he takes another breath. Tries to harden his voice into something a little braver. Why is he even in the med bay? Usually, he’d be up from something as fickle as one of Doom’s spells before they reboarded the quinjet. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

* * *

And it is quite a shock, isn't it? Steve swallows, not quite sure if it's the news itself or the truth of the news which makes it a little harder. Perhaps both. He doesn't quite know how to process it, but perhaps it doesn't matter, really.

And isn't that just the thing? To not matter? 

How can he even be Cap— 

"Okay," he says. "That's— okay."

"Take a moment," Sam is saying. "Just breathe. You're gonna be fine."

 _Is he, though?_

Is he?

* * *

Today is his first day of school — which is pretty exciting. 

It’s cold, crisp — just, perhaps, a little too much for the first week of September. Steve’s got at least four layers on, including a thermal and gloves and a hat, and the soft woolly scarf Natasha knitted for him (she’s been exploring other hobbies, too.) The whole shebang, really. 

He might not have walked, was offered a lift from Sam, Natasha, Rhodey multiple times. In the end, though, he decided he just needs a little space for himself. After all, he can always send off a quick text or even call one of them if he needs the encouragement. And anyway, if nothing else, the fresh air is good for him — and none of them could deny that. 

The walk is a good twenty-five minutes from the Tower, which is the perfect amount of time to get a decent walk in but hopefully not enough to get tangled in it that he wants to call off the whole thing, The perfect amount of time for Steve now, at least. 

At any rate, with how the last two months have gone, and — really — how the past few decades of his life have gone (read: his entire conscious life), he’ll take what moments to himself he can get. 

Hopefully, the feeling won’t wear off too fast.

Steve’s walk isn’t left completely to his own thoughts, of course. Sam’s set him up with a playlist, personalised for yours truly, of course, called ‘ _Sweet Tunes for Old Men to Get With the Times.’_ Bucky listens to it too, now. 

He’s got one earbud in one earbud out, because he likes walking with the melody and the natural rhythm of the streets both. It’s an easy beat, the sort of music that makes you feel like honeycomb inside, even as he’s buzzing a little with nervous energy.

And he’s not nervous — well, maybe a little, but not really. Excited, mostly. Happy, mostly.

Sam says he’ll come pick Steve up after, which is fair enough since Steve is under no qualms about him being tired after today. First day as well.

Bucky says he’ll have something cooked up for the both of them when they get back. Now, this would have made Steve a little fearful, back in the day, and he’d warned Sam about it, but Sam’s assured him that Bucky is improving. Mrs Wilson — _call me Darlene_ — has taken him under her wing in the kitchen, apparently, so Steve is reassured. Mostly. 

At the very least, they’ve always got takeout as an option, nowadays.

Steve’s about halfway to his first building of the day when his phone buzzes. He;s got a text — from Sam, apparently, and that means both of them.

**[Sam] — Good luck today bby - u got this!!**

**— Also be careful punk - you better not inhale any of those paint fumes**

**— When u come home, we’ll pose for you :3**

**— Love u~~ <3**

Steve grins and pauses on the sidewalk to type his reply.

**[You] — Thank you, guys! And, ugh, Buck, stop fussing.**

**[Sam] — Hey that could have been sam!!!**

**[You] — Maybe, but it wasn’t.**

**— Love you both too. :)**

Steve is a little early for class, actually, but there are a lot of buildings on campus and all the buildings have a lot of rooms, so he counts himself lucky that he’s given himself some time to explore. Better early than late, anyway, and there’s no harm.

He’s walking a little faster than he usually walks (these days), in part fuelled by excitement, partly anxiety, a little anticipation. It’s not a bad feeling, though. Not too many butterflies, but just enough that he feels like he’s buzzing a bit, maybe a little lighter on his feet.

There aren’t many people around yet, at least not on this side of the campus, just a few groups milling around, a peaceful kind of busyness. Steve takes his phone out again to snap a selfie or two to send to Sam and Bucky.

**[Sam] — <3 <3 <3**

**— have fun bby!**

**— make sure u smash them out of the water, stevie**

**[You] — I’ll try! XD**

* * *

_The list goes on forever of all the ways I could be better in my mind_

_As if I could earn God's favor given time_

_Or at least congratulations  
  
_

_Now I have learned my lesson_

_The price of this so-called perfection is everything_

_I spend my whole life searching desperately_

_To find out grace requires nothing of me  
  
_

_I wanna sing a song worth singing_

_I'll write an anthem worth repeating_

_I wanna feel the transformation_

A melody of reformation  
  


_I hold it all more loosely, and yet somehow much more dearly_

_'Cause I spend my whole life searching desperately_

_To find out that grace requires nothing_

_Grace requires nothing of me._

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics at the beginning and end are from 'One' by Sleeping At Last.


End file.
